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Saturday, December 10, 2011

A brush of a small, warm and furry body against my leg in the cold afternoon ~ come,

he says, come to the green wood and remember. So we step gently onto the mossy

path, pausing often more than we walk, feeling and sensing, more in body than

thought. I need this, and I wonder what it is for him. Sitting on the log bench, I

watch him settle onto the stone under the small hemlock, our usual spots. We sit in silence, two beings who have been together for fifteen years, he and I, cat and

person. The way we are in silence together is a treasured meeting of souls.

In the forest, we have entered another realm, but do not mistake it only for a

gentle place of peace and silence, for you'll have missed its power. We find our

freedom here, the raw beauty of a place mostly left alone by humans. We are

sharply aware of each sound and movement - and he of each smell - it would be

risky not to be. It is quiet, but not silent, and the peace I feel comes from

touching the edge of wildness, not from escaping. I am a visitor, and most of

what lives here has slowly slipped into the shadows, and watches. Soft wind blows

through high hemlock boughs, a distant raven calls, a gathering of chickadees

flits aboutnearby.

In the more cultivated clearing, an early mornings frost edges the thyme like a

coating of sugar. I wander to see simple forms transformed and dipped in golden

light.

December seems filtered through a veil of white light by afternoon. Even a bright blue sky feels cold against the bare branching of the oak. From the front steps of the house, I glimpse the little cottage through the trees.

I walk to the studio, and watch as the light fades behind the snow-dusted trees.

Settled into the forest now, the cottage seems sure of itself, awaiting the final

details and finding its form. I imagine the souls of all the trees that were taken,

coming together to find one song.

On a very cold evening, I ventured down the hill to sing carols and go for a wagonride. As we stood awaiting our ride, I couldn't help but be inspired by the steaming horses and flickering lights.

Something in the image below looks to me like a still from an old movie. I imagined

a cobbled street in England or a desolate outpost in the American west, tumbleweeds

blowing down the street and guns hanging from holsters.

Steam rising from horse silhouettes and bright spotlights to guide the wagon resulted in an image that might be mistaken for a sunset over a mountain ridge.

I found myself writing to you in my head the last two weeks, awaiting the moment

when life slowed enough to actually post something. Alas, what came in the moment

is nothing like what I imagined. While raking leaves and cutting plant stalks I thought

to tell you of the scent of chocolate mint and how much I love it, and to share with

you the sound of dry baptisia pods - black and empty - clacking in the wind, and to

tell you of awaking in the night to listen to the coyotes singing somewhere close by in

About Me

I dwell in a peaceful forest clearing amongst tall, sweeping hemlocks. A gathering of oaks encircles my home, and ravens cling to the shadows in the deep shade of the forest beyond. They gift me with squawking and rhythmic beats of wings and call to life the wild spirit within. The mosses, stones and trees, creature beings and spirits of the deep wood whisper, inspire and enchant. I remember and dream and reclaim myself as a sacred being in the web of all life, doing my best to live my life between the culture to which I belong, and the forest which is my true home.
I make things visual in watercolors, oils, ink, scratchboard, and clay/mixed-media. I sing ancient sounding songs (so I'm told) and tell stories from magical realms and the land of dreams.